Becca slipped into the garage and grabbed her father’s shovel. She picked up one of Sheba’s old bones that was lying in the driveway, then made her way across the backyard to the edge of the woods. If her mother happened to see Becca, she would assume she was burying one of Sheba’s toys, a method to train the dog to dig in one spot rather than all over her father’s yard.
She counted twelve steps to the left from the base of an oak tree, not to the right where the dog was expected to dig. She pushed the blade of the shovel into the ground, removing the dirt until enough of it was piled high off to the side and the hole was deep. She looked over her shoulder toward the house. When she was certain no one was watching, she dropped the shirt along with the knife into the hole and quickly covered it. She tossed leaves and sticks on top to make the spot blend into the surrounding area as best she could. It wasn’t good enough. Not far from the tree was a large rock. It was too big for her to carry, so she pushed with all her strength, rolling it on top of the packed earth. That was better. Less conspicuous. In time, she’d never notice it at all.
She counted twelve steps to the right of the tree and dug another hole to bury Sheba’s bone. As soon as she covered it up, Sheba dug it out.
“Becca,” her mother called. “Time for dinner.”
“Coming,” she answered, trying to make her voice sound normal, not revealing the scared, guilty feeling thrashing her insides.
Becca brushed the dirt away with her hands, the shovel on the ground by her side. Mud was crammed underneath her fingernails, stuck to her palm, cold and wet and numbing.
Her fingers touched on something soggy and rotted and threadbare, scraps of an old shirt that fell apart in her hand. She heard her father’s voice telling her how the earth in these parts had a way of hanging on to things, preserving the past, keeping its secrets close.
She removed some more dirt, finding a handle and then the blade, dull and mud caked. She picked it up, turned it over.
The knife that could’ve changed everything.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A special heartfelt thanks to Karin Wagner, my friend and running partner, for sharing with me a painful time in her life and for helping me understand the stages of grief, of watching a loved one pass from an unrelenting disease like cancer. I hope you found some comfort in talking with me. And to Romy, Karin’s German shepherd, making her debut as Becca’s sidekick and trusted friend. You’re a great dog, Romy.
A big thank-you to my agent, Carly Watters, for always having my back and never giving up on me. To Megha Parekh and the Thomas & Mercer team, thank you for all your hard work and for giving me the opportunity to continue to do what I love. And to Kelli Martin, for understanding the story and characters perfectly and making me dig so much deeper to make the novel shine. Thank you!
To the experts in their fields—Dennis Mullen, retired Pennsylvania State Police homicide investigator, thank you for sitting with me and answering all of my questions. To Lieutenant Joseph Sokolofski, thank you for taking the time to talk with me and keeping me current on investigative practices and procedures. Your expertise has been invaluable. To Michael Ann Beyer, thank you for explaining forensic medicine and what it’s like to be present during an autopsy. I assure you any and all errors are mine and mine alone.
Also, thank you to Christa Gordon-Worrell, DVM, for sharing her expertise in the work of veterinarians. Again, any errors here are mine as well.
Sometimes research takes you to places you never thought you’d go. I spent a couple afternoons watching YouTube videos on how to field dress deer and rabbits. I also watched videos on how to load and shoot a .30-06 bolt-action rifle. But it was my nephew, Dalton Marsh, who provided me with the details I needed about the rifle and the field dressing that helped me write some of my favorite scenes. I promise, Dalton, any errors fall on me.
Thank you to the local peeps on the Facebook page “You Know You Grew Up in the Slate Belt If . . .” for answering my questions about the history of the small towns that make up the area.
And of course, a big thank-you to the usual suspects: Tracey Golden, Mindy Strouse Bailey, Tina Mantel, Jenene McGonigal, Kate Weeks.
To Philip and our two daughters, my heart, always. Philip, this one’s for you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2012 Sally Ullman Photography
Karen Katchur is an award-winning suspense novelist with a bachelor of science in criminal justice and a master’s in education. She lives in eastern Pennsylvania with her husband and two children. You can learn more at www.karenkatchur.com.
River Bodies (Northampton County Book 1) Page 27
